


Isn’t He Pretty in Pink

by Novapple



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 07:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18586630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novapple/pseuds/Novapple
Summary: They’re both fancied up for a night of being fake fiancés and crime fighting. Between how gorgeous Connor looks and how smug he’s being, Gavin will count himself lucky if he’s able to survive the coming hours.





	Isn’t He Pretty in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a ficlet posted on tumblr I decided to expand on just a little. Prompt was sent by The Great [Sheepishwolfy](https://sheepishwolfy.tumblr.com) for “No one will ever believe us.” (from a list created by user @mymiscfandomimagines)

He feels like a jackass. He _looks_ like a jackass. All fancied up and for what? A stupid, pretend date with Connor? He doesn’t understand how this is relevant to solving their case. Well—no. He knows why it’s necessary, he just doesn’t know why it has to go this far. It would be so much easier to go in guns blazing.

Maybe he’s just bitter because it’s not real.

“No one will ever believe us,” he mumbles, not wanting to step foot out of the taxi to begin this god awful night.

“Certainly not with that attitude.”

Connor’s full of the sass tonight. It’s like dressing up snazzier than usual gets his self confidence up to dangerous levels. No one should be this happy to go to a dumb gala after party in a fake-ass fancy hotel with snobs and millionaires and secret drug lords milling about. But here they are and here they go.

Connor checks his hair in the reflection of the window. It’s fucking immaculate, of course, slicked back with one perfect strand curling over his forehead. It reminds him too much of his pre-deviant days. Perfect as it may look, Gavin much prefers it natural—he likes the charm of his everyday curls. All his self control is being used to suppress the urge to rake his fingers through it and mess it up. Connor would probably deck him.

“Just hold my hand and act like I’m the love of your life. It can’t be that hard.”

He’s starting to sweat. Good thing he’s got a suit jacket to cover himself because he’s definitely going to have pit stains before the night ends.

No, it won’t be hard to act like Connor is the love of his life—in fact, it’ll probably be pretty fucking easy. That’s the scary part.

Against his will, they get out of the taxi and he trudges his way to the entrance, eying Connor up the whole time. He has no right looking so damn good in a pastel pink suit. No right at all.

He almost screams when fingers interlock with his own.

“And call me ‘sweetheart.’”

“What?” he hisses, squeezing the hand in his tighter than necessary. “You can’t just pick your own pet name.”

“Of course I can. You have approximately five seconds to pick yours before I assign you one.”

He wastes his five seconds sputtering like an idiot.

“I think you’ll be ‘my love.’”

Hearing that sentence causes him to choke on his own spit as they enter the lobby and Connor asks _loudly_ if he needs his inhaler. He knows he’s done it just to humiliate him. A warning to behave himself and not blow their cover or there will be more where that came from. Everyone stares.

Their romantic grand entrance.

The plan is to blend for an hour and then go looking for the evidence that could be hidden in any number of rooms in this ridiculously giant hotel. It could take all night. He desperately hopes it doesn’t.

If Connor’s individual plan is to completely murder him with embarrassment, then he’s doing a damn fine job so far.

They’ve been here five minutes and all he can think about his how much he wants to go home. Well, that, and how unfairly pretty Connor looks.

Apparently, he isn’t the only one thinking it because Connor is drawing in some lingering glances. He’s the picture of godlike gorgeousness of fucking course, but none of these people know that he’s also one dangerous motherfucker. He could probably kill everyone here with just his pinkie finger. And that only makes him a hundred times hotter.

None of them know about the heat they’re both packing hidden inside their suit jackets, should the mission go sideways.

One creep blatantly checks out Connor’s ass, totally unashamed, and _maybe_ he grips his hand just a little tighter. Maybe he pulls him a little closer.

Protective over someone who isn’t even his.

Only, that’s not really true. Connor is his for tonight. They are each other’s for tonight. He has the right to be as clingy as he wants.

They make their way into the ballroom where it’s exactly nothing like he expected. Club music pulsates and echos, people squeal and stumble in drunkenness. He didn’t go to his high school prom, but he imagines this must’ve been what it was like. Only instead of sweaty teenagers, it’s sweaty grown ass adults.

He takes a long, suffering breath.

“I wanna die.”

Connor discretely smacks his arm. “Just make nice.”

They introduce themselves as _fiancés_ to every person they meet and each time it pulls at his heart harder than the last. One drunk woman who’s got to be at least seventy calls them a “stunning couple.” Connor does most of the talking and he’s purposely overusing his shitty little _my love_ pet name just to taunt him. The beautiful bastard is enjoying this way too much. Gavin’s face hasn’t cooled off since they walked in the door and at this rate, he’ll be lucky to get through the night without spontaneously combusting.

If he wasn’t on the job, he’d be at the bar right now because he needs a fucking drink. Then again, if he wasn’t on the job then he wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

Connor puts a hand on his shoulder and leans in close, mouth almost completely against his ear. Fuck it, maybe he’ll have that drink anyway.

“Should we dance?”

“Fuck you.”

Connor arches a brow at him.

“Right—sorry. Fuck you, _sweetheart_ ,” he amends. It’s an amazing feat for Connor having not thrown a punch at him yet.

They’ve ditched the raunchy club music in favor of some throwbacks. Everyone’s going hard for the one playing now. It’s one of those songs that can be danced to any way—some people are partnered up, twirling each other around and some are jumping and singing like they’re at a concert. He’s getting enough secondhand embarrassment from watching them to last a lifetime. The last thing he needs is firsthand embarrassment.

“But I like this song.”

Connor’s working the puppy eyes. Those big, brown, dangerously beautiful eyes that had him agreeing to partner up with him for this mission in the first place. He’s fucked, oh god, he’s fucked.

“We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, you fuckin’—”

“One dance and then we’ll go,” Connor looks around and does this stupid eyebrow wiggle in place of saying something like, _One dance and then we’ll go hunt for the evidence to incriminate these fuckwads_. He almost laughs. What an idiot. He’s too cute for his own good.

Gavin is completely powerless here.

“One dance.”

***

As if he wasn’t sweaty enough, they did not, in fact, settle for just one dance. Connor might have two left feet, but turns out it doesn’t really matter how many times someone steps on your toes when you’re in love with them. Yeah. It wasn’t bad. Maybe he’d even go as far as saying he had fun. Maybe (definitely) he would do it again if given the chance.

Now it’s back to business as usual.

Hotel management has given them the emergency passcode that unlocks all the rooms, should they need a last resort. So far, they’ve only been checking supply closets and bathrooms and there’s still like a thousand more to go.

Connor is doing his Robocop act, scanning yet another too cramped closet for prints, when his head snaps up. His eyes are wide and his body stills completely. A pit of dread fills Gavin’s stomach because something is clearly wrong.

“Shit,” Connor hisses, “Someone’s coming.”

Sure enough, in the dead silence there are two voices growing closer outside the door. His fingers twitch closer to his gun hidden inside his suit. The people in this drug ring aren’t above murder. They’ve seen that.

Connor has that trademark look that says he’s about to do something drastic but necessary. At this point, Gavin expects it. The Connor Way.

“I’m sorry.”

In a swift motion, Connor’s fingers dig into his hips, slinging him around and shoving him hard against the wall. The back of his head makes a sickening _crack_ against the surface and for a second he sees a burst of colors, going dizzy with nausea. Only for a second. Because then Connor fucking clamps his teeth over his neck like a goddamn vampire.

He’s not proud of the noise that flies out of his mouth—something like a pleasantly surprised yelp of pain. He’s dizzy again, but for an entirely different reason. Hands hang limply at his sides and his eyes slip closed, completely involuntary. He barely even registers the door opening and a couple surprised gasps. Teeth bite down harder, Connor tensing up a little, just so that it would be unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him.

 _Move. Do something_ , Gavin mentally begs because, for one, these people are actually going to think Connor is a vampire wannabe and the last thing they need is for the cops to be called. He can imagine the humiliation of trying to explain the situation to another precinct.

And for two, Connor might be about to break skin. _Definitely_ the last thing they need is a trip to the emergency room.

Luckily, he seems to get the telepathic message. He releases only to lick a long stripe up his neck. If Gavin thought getting his throat ripped out was bad, this is straight-up _fatal_.

His hands finally jump into action, flying up to grip the fabric covering Connor’s back. And for a moment, he forgets it’s all an act.

Is it an act?

Connor is lightly sucking the skin where his shoulder meets his neck, face buried in his shirt collar. It’s a stark contrast from the pain of his head smacking against the wall and the vampire bite. This feels like Connor apologizing for hurting him.

_Is it an act?_

Someone clears their throat. “Ah, sorry. Didn’t know this room was taken.”

His brain is spinning, but he doesn’t miss the irony of people being in a hotel and still trying to hook up in broom closets.

He doesn’t know whether it’s only been a few seconds or a minute, but the intruders have definitely been looking on too long. Enjoying the show, he guesses. Once the door clicks shut, Connor instantly takes a step back. One hand goes to the back of his skull, probably feeling for a bump, and the other tilts his head back to inspect his neck.

“Gavin,” Connor breathes, “I’m so sorry. I panicked, I—”

“I’m fine.”

He’s dazed, completely unable to muster up the willpower to bat the fussy hands away.

“I miscalculated the force, I don’t know how—”

“I’m _fine_.”

He doesn’t like how his entire demeanor has changed. He would take cocky, confident Connor over guilty Connor any day. It was nice seeing him so smiley. Not these troubled eyes and worried brows.

Maybe he’s not fine, maybe he did hit his head too hard, because the only thing he can think to do is pull Connor in by the tie and kiss him hard. He’s unraveling everything by doing this. Putting it all on the line.

But Connor kisses back.

Not an act.

“I think you’re concussed,” Connor pulls away, but not so far that Gavin can’t stretch up and kiss him again.

“I think you’re an idiot who looks too good in pink.”

It’s all just coming out now, isn’t it? Seeing his LED change back to the blue it’s been most of the night is worth the embarrassment. It seems like it’s always worth it for him.

Connor kisses him this time. Again and again. And again.

Over and over until they both remember they’re supposed to be taking down drug lords.

“We’re talking about this later,” Connor promises.

***

Because Connor and he always seem to get the crazy motherfuckers, it ends in a gunfight. It ends with them chasing three men down too many flights of stairs all the way back down to the ballroom, party getting super crashed when Connor shoots one of the poor bastard’s kneecaps out.

It’s three in the morning. He’s plopped down in a lobby chair, after having just handed the criminals over to the booking officers. The paper work for this case is going to be a whole other level of nightmare.

He’s tired. He’s sore all over. He has a killer headache. He just wants to go home and sleep for eight hundred years, but Connor is walking towards him and he knows he’s going to want to talk about earlier. Surprisingly, he wants to talk about it, too. Just not…right now.

His heart thumps harder at the prospect. They kissed each other. They made out in a closet and the world didn’t end.

He wonders just how much Connor knew when he decided to torture Gavin with that _my love_ business.

“You look rough.”

“Thanks. You look,” he sighs, “infuriatingly perfect, still.”

“I got us a room.”

Well. He’s awake _now_.

“Us?”

“Us,” Connor smiles. “I’d like to keep an eye on your vitals tonight because of…”

He touches the back of his own head and there’s that guilty expression again. Right. Spending the night together only to make sure he doesn’t keel over. He doesn’t miss the way his eyes keep drifting to his neck, either. There’s probably a nasty mark. This is probably Connor’s guilt complex talking.

Honestly, Connor probably only kissed him because of heat of the moment bullshit. He’s an idiot for thinking—

“And I need you some place where you can’t escape the conversation I want to have.”

Oh.

If it wasn’t for the cute smile on his face, Gavin would be worried about that sentence.

The closer they get to the room, the more nervous he feels. There’s no reason to feel this way—it’s not like anything major is going to happen tonight. They’re both too exhausted, probably too tired for even a real conversation. His stomach does somersaults as Connor types the passcode in.

As soon as they’re in, he goes to dump his gun and phone on the table and immediately starts yanking his tie off. Something to do with his hands to relieve his nerves and, also, he can’t stand the monkey suit any longer—if Connor wants to have a serious talk, he’ll have to do it while Gavin is in boxers and an undershirt.

Or maybe not. Because hands are suddenly on his wrists, stilling him from any further stripping.

“Gavin. I know you’re tired and I know I said you look rough, but you _do_ look very nice tonight. That woman from earlier was right when she said we look stunning and, well, we—“ Connor cuts himself off, biting his lip, trying to control the goofy smile forming on his lips. “Would you like to dance?”

Tonight is full of surprises.

“What? There’s no music.”

Connor reaches around him to where his phone sits and just like that, the room is filled with music. The first song they’d danced to earlier.

“I thought you wanted to talk?”

“I do. Just one dance?”

He’s _tired_. But he loves Connor. He loves him and his dangerous eyes and how soft he looks in pink. Gavin loves him so damn much and he hopes some day, maybe soon, he won’t be afraid to tell him.

“One dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hot mess because the whole time writing it, I had the same 5 chord guitar riff from Pretty in Pink by the Psychedelic Furs stuck in my head and went fuckin nuts
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumble](https://space-apples.tumblr.com)


End file.
